




POETRY OF FLOWERS. 223 
Thou comest not when violets lean 
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dress’d, 
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, 
When woods are bare, and birds are flown, 
| And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blie—blue—as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. | 
I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
: May look to Heaven, as I depart. 

THE PRIMROSE. 
| THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn 
Are waving o’er the pool, 
Mov’d by the wind that breathes along 
So sweetly and so cool. 








